Hamptonality

We upgraded to the Hampton Inn, I'm thinking of my day in the woods alongside the tobacco barns. Deep in the rural cut, the early spring sun bounced off my blades. My man across the street sat in his plastic chair and listened to my work among the thickets. We were interrupted by the roosting of a Turkey Vulture. The bird made no mistake on where it wanted to land, very ungracefully, it crashed through the branches and tried to stop on a dime. The man in the chair was startled, he was that close to me. We shared a moment, me and him and the vulture, all while going about our business. The moment was poetic, it was made for TV. Like the times when something significant occurs and later you realize it was significant because it is constantly preserved in a memory.

One week later...we find ourselves at rest at the Quality Inn. The other side of the 85 and 58 interchange in South Hill, VA. The work crews find this place as comforting as a slow cooked meal in a slow cooker on the homefront. The weather is getting nice, folding chairs are out on the balconies. The cigarette smokers are puffing their clouds outside their rooms. The charcoal grills are in the parking lot, a temporary/permanent fixture for the road crews as they endure a few endless weeks in South Hill. Our work crew has found comfort here for the night. Ah yes, to pull the curtain and see the beauty of highway 58 just yards from our hotel room door. Knowing that these roads lead to places in history that have been abandoned and overgrown is enough for me to want answers. The intrigue in this historic and rural area is muddled by the seeming slower pace of the Southside. There are so many secrets buried in these woods and pathways. History was so feverish here in the early parts of our country. The big agricultural machine, the mecca of wealth, the disheartening fact of slavery and servitude. Inequalities. I am slowly gaining more fondness for the folks who make it here and the stories of their ancestors. Enough of the Southern living is ingrained in my psyche, that I feel adopted by the area. From the red clay of the Piedmont to the sandy soil of the Tidewater. The Piedmont has made itself my old friend all along. This was by design. I am made to note the people and the traditions and the labor of love and labors of toil. The wooded lots are trying to tell me more each visit. Like the bird who sits high a top the fuel pumps at the Flying J truck stop in Carmel Church and sings his Southern hymns, I am manifesting a hymn within. Something for me to take home to the North and teach my children. Down the road from the Quality Inn, on the 58, resides the ruins of the original Randolph Macon University. Resting a few feet off the highway, it's buried behind the famous Triangle Grocery. The site was a horse racing track in the 1700's, the largest in its day for an oval shape. I think the striking feature of these ruins is the fact that they are so rurally located and more people are not drawn to its beautiful antiquity. I mean, this is pure Americana rotting away in the thickets. The old Presidents house is decayed, the out buildings are ousted from their foundations. The universities cemetery is deepened further in groves of vines and briers, awaiting remembrance. I'm sure a fresh coat of periwinkle coats the ground and the graves.

So, to contemplate all this for an evening, I take my ball and throw it against the wall. Next to the Quality Inn is a defunct grocery store or something similar. I found the loading dock outback that was probably used to hustle and bustle but now it finds itself in need of attention. The industrial strength steel awaits more tons of payloads and truck tires. The infrastructure is here, time is banging against its youth, the decay is trying to relentlessly reclaim the building. The wall closest to the Quality was my target for throwing the tennis ball and thinking about my duties. (Disco Store = Discount* Store)